


putting him down

by butterbliss



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BADASS PHIL, Clint Needs a Hug, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Mild S&M, No Safeword, Pain, Requited Love, Sexual Tension, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:33:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterbliss/pseuds/butterbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint needs help. Coulson helps him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoosierbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/gifts), [arsenicarcher (Arsenic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



_Clint_

He's crying within minutes of Coulson finding him.

He's trying not to, he really is, but the more he tries to stifle his hiccups and gasps, the louder and more desperate he seems to become. Coulson's bewildered - he doesn't look it, but Clint's _knows_ him. To his credit he doesn't say anything though. He simply runs a soothing hand along the length of his back while his other hand gently strokes through the bristles of his hair. Coulson slides his hand from his nape to the top of his head, and back down again. Over and over and over again. It's mostly quiet in the space except for his sobbing breathes and Coulson's soft reassurances that "it's alright" and "you're fine and you're safe" and "take your time, Clint." He takes Coulson's last piece of advice to heart and it's long minutes before he's calm enough to settle down. 

Coulson waits until his last hiccup has dissipated before stroking his head one finally time and handing him a box of tissues from the coffee table. Clint blows his nose with a few and wipes his face with the rest, then shoves the crumpled mess into his hospital pajama bottoms. Hands clenched in trepidation, he looks up. 

Phil's mouth is soft and his eyes sad. Gently he asks, "Wanna tell me what's going on?"

Hanging his head, Clint opens his mouth to tell him. 

 

_Hours Earlier_

Clint's laying in a ceiling air vent, curled into the smallest ball the space will allow. Under normal conditions, that usually means his knees are pressed to his forehead with his arms wrapped tightly around. Now however…that's easier said than done. His last mission has left him with an arm casted and pinned to his chest by a sling, and his ribs taped up so tightly he wonders if Dr. Jones had been more pissed than she’d let on that he had attacked the nurse who’d tried to take his blood pressure.

Logically, he knows that hadn’t been his fault, not really, but he still feels guilty all the same. A while back, Coulson had made it a requirement that either he or Natasha or Steve or Bruce or Tony or Thor or Hill be there whenever Clint needed immediate medical attention within SHIELD headquarters. Most times he's fine on his own, but during especially rough missions he sometimes forgets that hospital staff are not an enemy that need defeating. 

Even Clint knows that such a request borders on the slightly insane, but after he'd dropkicked an orderly who’d tried to massage his lymph nodes for the third time the entire medical team had quickly come to an agreement and the accommodation had been made. He thinks Dr. Jones might be new to staff though, so maybe that explains why she hadn’t tried to find any of the others.

Also, to be quite honest, Clint barely remembers being gurneyed into Medical. He’d been in and out of consciousness for most of the 11-hour plane ride and he supposed they’d underestimated how strong a man with four broken bones, concussion and bruises over most of his body could be.

He hadn’t been completely unaware though.

He remembered brief touches here and there – hands transferring him from the hoverboard onto the stretcher, the cool metal of scissors cutting open his uniform – but the moment he’d felt a hand gripping his arm and the rough velcro of the cuff he’d sprung to his feet on top of the table and leaped at the frightened man with the stethoscope in his ears. It wasn’t until someone shoved a sedative into his neck that he’d gone down for good.

Down below, the frantic shouts of people running this way and that echoed throughout the hallway.

“Eagle, check corridor B and C and radio me if you find him. Barton. Barton!” Dr. Jones' voice sounded even more harried than usual and curious, he peeked through one of the vent slits to peer down below. The doctor’s bun had been pulled back tight when he’d last seen her. Now, however, several strands had been pulled loose to fall carelessly down her face and back.

“You three – check every crawlspace and supply closet on this floor and the next. Even the ones that no one has keys for. Everyone else, recheck all the patient rooms and anywhere else you think a sleep-deprived invalid could end up in. Ella and Mark, did either of you go up to check the range or roof? Well, what are you waiting for?! The cameras didn’t pick up on him leaving the floor, but I want someone up there just to be sure.”

The hand she sweeps through her hair has half her locks cascading from her hair tie though she hardly seems to notice. Her next statement is desperate.

“And will everyone for the love of God, keep this from Coulson, Romanov and anyone else associated with the Avengers. The longer they remain in the dark about this the better. I want Agent Barton found and want him found _now_. Move out!”

As they scurry off like ants into different directions, he can't help the few chuckles that manage to escape his lips. It isn't long though until his ribs make their protest known and instead of choking on peals of laughter he's bitting back gasps of pain. Breathing hard through his nose, he gets on his knees and elbows (one-elbow really) and army crawls down east of the narrow vent. They haven’t found him yet, but it’s only a matter of time until they think to look in the ceiling vents. He isn't taking any chances.

By the time he makes it to his destination fifteen minutes later, he's covered in dust and sweat and breathing nosily through his mouth. These parts of the vents are cleaner than the ones above the hospital wing, but he still feels himself choking on the accumulated grime from the last several hours. Thankfully, the vent opening doesn't take much jimmying to pry loose and as he peers down the opening, eyes scanning left and right, he's reassured that no one's hiding down below.

After a minute of praying to a dozen different Gods in four languages, he holds his breath and drops down onto the carpet below. The fall isn't far, but he is in no condition to be dropping ten feet in the air. It had damn well taken him five fucking tries just to get himself into the vent above the bathroom sink in his hospital room. He sticks the landing, but ends up slamming his knees, shoulder and head into the floor a second later. He lets out a scream before he manages to cut it off, and rolling from side to side, he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from passing out.

After a few minutes, he nods to himself. Well, someone had listened at least. He isn't hurt. Or rather he isn't any more hurt than he had been before. Shakily, he gets to his feet and staggers over to the couch. He spends less than a minute dusting himself off before falling face-first onto the cushions below.

He takes a deep breath in and relaxes for the first time in days.

He's exhausted. And sore. Can’t forget sore.

He isn't sure how long he lays there with his face buried into the back of the couch before he becomes aware of a presence standing in the doorway. With the last of his strength he rolls over and musters up a grin.

“It’s good to see you, sir. How was your mission?”

“We completed our objective with no casualties to civilians or combat units so it was a ringing success. I heard yours wasn’t so easy. And not to change subjects, but did you really get in here using the vents Agent Barton? In that shape?”

“Had to sir. With you gone so long, I wanted to make sure intruders thought twice about trying to break into your office.”

“Intruders, eh? I appreciate the thought, but I have to say I’m not sure how’d you’d fight them with the condition you’re in.”

“You and me both, sir. I sure am lucky you came by first though, huh?”

Agent Coulson flickes on the light and Clint can't help but blink up at the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjust, he looks across the room. Coulson looks as impeccable as ever.

Slung over a shoulder is a small travel bag that Clint knows contains a personal toiletries and few changes of clothes. His garment bag isn't with him so it must already be hanging up in Lola. Sleek swatches of navy blue fabric encase his body at all the right angles and he’s loosened his tie just enough for Clint to see a button popped open and a hint of collarbone. The front of his jacket is unbuttoned all the way and he has both hands in his pocket, his stance relaxed and in charge. Clint can feel his mouth watering as he stares.

“Pray telling me what you’re doing here Agent Barton and why Medical reports that you’ve been missing for the last five hours and…” Coulson flickes a wrist up to glance casually at his Rolex before sliding his hand back into his pocket again, “23 minutes?”

Clint shivers. Coulson's such a badass. Had it really been that long? He must’ve been in the vents for longer than he thought.

He opens his mouth to respond, but hesitates at the last second. It's hard to tell from his voice just what kind of mood Phil is in. There were no intonations or shortness for Clint to gauge how much trouble he's in and Clint is more than a little afraid at what he’ll see if he looks up at his face. Clint reckon's a number of possible scenarios will play out though:

1) Coulson being upset that he hadn’t completed his mission within the set time frame (there had been no civilian casualties and he’d finished his mission only 18 hours past the anticipated end time which for him was pretty damn good. Coulson had never ever been upset with any of these facts in the past, but still.)  
2) Coulson being pissed that Clint had broken into his office (for the umpteenth time, really) and gotten his very expensive couch dirty with sweat, blood and grime.  
3) Coulson being pissed that Clint had escaped from the Medlab after being critical not 5 days prior, and for forcing dozens of SHIELD employees to shirk their duties and look for a wayward agent who easily could have ended up passed out in some dingy alcove.  
4) Coulson being SUPER pissed (the only reasonable reaction was that Agent Coulson was angry in some way, shape or form) that Clint hadn’t waited for at least Natasha to come back from her mission before he went AWOL.

He pushes himself up until he's sitting with his back pressed against the couch then counts slowly in his head, 1...2...3. Gathering his courage, he looks up and searches the entirety of Coulson’s face.

Coulson looks good. Tired, but good. Despite, coming back from a 10-day long mission the bags underneath his eyes aren't as pronounced as they could be and when they finally make eye contact, all he sees is worry and barely-contained relief.

Coulson’s lips tilt up an inch and his eyes soften a fraction more. Softly he says, “I’m not angry, Clint. Just worried. No one knew where you were. If you’re worried about Nurse Jacob, his prognosis couldn’t be better. You broke his arm in the best way an arm could be broken, and he should be completely healed in a month or so."

His next statement is purposeful. "Make no mistake though - this was medical’s fault and no one else's. As Dr. Jones put it, she just _didn’t have the time_ to read your entire medical file and the nurses admitted to not calling Stark Tower so they wouldn't have to go through the stress of dealing withTony. They will not make any of these mistakes again.” His eyes glittered meaningfully. “I can promise you that.”

Clint nods and softly says, "Thanks Coulson." He looks down into his lap. He hears a faint sigh, then the soft click of the door sliding shut. He swallows past the lump in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut against the tiny pinpricks of moisture gathering in the corners. Seconds later, he sucks in a breath as he feels a hand settle onto the top of his head, heavy. He looks up again.

Coulson's perched on the edge of the coffee table, his face a mountain of concern. “Clint, what’s wrong? Are you still feeling sick? Tell me.” He smoothes his hand down past the staples in his scalp to cup the back of his head and neck, massaging deep.

Resigned, he bites his lip as he comes to a decision. 

Eyes wet with moisture, he mumbles his confession into the quiet room.

“I can’t sleep.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the finale!

_Phil_

“Should I sing a lullaby?”

Clint’s glare is fierce but unimpressive, its affect primarily lost by the Captain America bed sheets pulled up to his chin. He’s seen better - _much_ better, in fact - and tells him so. In response, Clint settles deeper under the covers, twisting and turning until he’s un-tucked the sheets and curled up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. 

Phil takes a breath. Then several more. Finally, he counts to three. When he’s calm again, (and certain he’s not going to say anything he’ll regret), he opens his mouth to again remind his agent just whose bed he’s in. Except that the moment he does, Clint decides to give the longest, loudest, and rudest yawn he can possibly muster. His face contorts for seconds on end, the black and blue skin around his jaw and cheek looking more awful by the moment. By the time he’s finished, Phil’s about ready to spank him.

Or kiss him. Maybe both.

From beneath his lashes, Clint looks up and smiles. “Sorry, sir.”

 Definitely both.

They’re in Phil’s bedroom with the lights dimmed low and the soft _whirr_ of the ceiling fan humming in the background. It’s too dark to read the clock on the wall, but he’d guess it’s sometime after one. Probably closer to two. The clocks around his home are purely for show, and while he can usually tell the time without looking, he’s been in Angola the last week and a half, and his inner clock needs another day to readjust.

If you had told him 12 hours ago that instead of sleeping like the dead, (like he was prone to do whenever he came back from a mission and was off-duty the next day) he’d be watching one of his field agents fidget in-between his covers, he’d have told you to suck it.

And if you had also said that said field agent was actually his pain-in-the-ass-subordinate and hot-as-fuck-crush Clint Barton, he’d have told you to double suck it both long _and_ hard. 

Needless to say, this was _not_ what he’d been expecting when he’d stepped off the helicarrier that afternoon.

As he’d walked down to Medical for his post-OP check-up, Hill had sidled up to his side and asked if he’d had a moment. What she really meant was: _I need you to stay calm and not freak out for what I’m about to say._ He’d stopped in his tracks as a dozen different scenarios had run through his mind: Natasha going off-grid, the Hulk terrorizing downtown, Tony, Tony, _Tony_ …

When Hill had reported that Clint had suffered serious injuries during his latest mission, he hadn’t been surprised; S5s are notoriously difficult and Phil would’ve been more troubled if Clint _hadn’t_ come back with an injury or two.

And Phil also hadn’t been shocked to learn that he had somehow managed to escape from the Medlab, despite five on-duty nurses standing guard. When Clint wants to disappear he will and Phil trusts him enough to know that he’ll never up and leave if his condition is still critical.

Phil had been ready to rip someone’s fucking head off, however, when he’d learned that no one had bothered to call anyone from Clint’s support team when he’d been brought back to headquarters. And the fact that one of their staff had gotten hurt due to _their_ own negligence had him nearly frothing at the mouth. He didn’t like yelling, but he did then. For several minutes and at several people. As he’d stalked out of the Medlab and down the corridor to the elevators, Hill had had to run to catch up to him.

“Well, that was impressive,” she said, her tone a mixture of sarcasm and awe. “Just so you know, that lady doctor transferred in last month from the Navy SEALs. Word has it she beat out eighty other SHIELD candidates with a hand tied behind her back.”

“Thanks for the bio,” he responded drily. “With all that blubbering she did back there I thought we’d picked her up from a clinic somewhere in Kentucky.” She chortled loudly then asked, “So, have any idea where our boy is?”

“A clue.”

“Got it. I’ll cancel the missing patient alert and hold things down while you find him. With the rest of your team gone, I assume you’ll be Clint-sitting for the next few days – I’ll let Fury know you’re off-duty till then.”

“Thanks, Maria” he said, his anger cooling as they reached the elevators.

As he stepped into one and pressed for his floor, Hill leaned in and whispered, “Remember Phil, it’ll be just you and him. Alone.” She smiled suggestively. “Make sure you make the most of it.” Before he’d even had the chance to play dumb or lie she’d popped her head back out just as the doors dinged shut.

He’d cursed her name all the way up his office.

Shaking his head at the memory, he watches as Clint throws off the sheets and scrunches up a pillow beneath his head. Again.

“You really can’t sleep, can you?” Phil asks as he leans back in his armchair and re-crosses his ankles on top of the mattress.

“Told you,” Clint says. Though his tone is subdued, Phil can hear the faint trace of worry underneath.

“That you did. Remind me though – was that before or after the crying?”

Clint’s face goes red and his mouth pops open in shock as he stares at Phil, speechless. After a moment, a sly smile tugs up a corner of his mouth. 

“Good question, sir,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it was sometime after I had your mom sneak into my hospital room.”

“Really now? Pray tell, what did she want?”

“My dick.”

“Need I remind you that my mother’s been vacationing in Alaska since Sunday.”

“Oh…your dad then.” 

Phil caves first with Clint soon joining in. As their laughter dies down, he’s happy to see some of the tension fade from his archer’s face. Those bags on the other hand…

In the silence that follows he asks, “How long?”

“Barton.”

“…A week before UAE. And for most of my mission.”

“…That’s nearly a month, Clint.”

“Geez, who are you Sherlock fucking Holmes? Yes, you dick, I _know_.”

Phil ignores the barb and continues. “You’re not the best sleeper in the world, I know, but I don’t remember you going through such a long stretch of insomnia before.” 

Clint winces. “Because I haven’t,” he says as he sits up, propping a few pillows behind his back. His tone is weary. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking, Coulson. It isn’t. Most nights I get 5 hours, sometimes 6. Just forget that whole… _crying_ thing from before – my meds are just fucking with me. It’s not that bad. Really.” 

But, Phil’s shaking his head and softly he says, “It is.” He continues. “I’ve only seen you cry twice before and both times you threatened to gut my insides if I ever told anyone what happened. You forgot to do that this time. And you and I both know that all operatives on S4s and above are required to sleep at least 6 hours a night unless mission parameters state otherwise. You and your team were on simple guard duty for a foreign diplomat who also happens to be one of SHIELD’s wealthier benefactors. Hence the S5 status. The injuries you sustained came on the last day of your mission when you just so happened to encounter an underground kidnapping ring on the way to the helicarrier. You’re lucky that explosion didn’t kill you, by the way. It certainly would have killed Agent Snyder if you hadn’t taken the brunt of the hit.”

Clint waves off the remark. “I was just in the right place at the right time. And it was Marshall who wanted to stop by that deli, not me.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him when I see him, but that still doesn’t diminish the fact that you helped rescue nineteen women and children from a ring SHIELD didn’t even know existed. Good job.” He nods and moves on since praise always makes Clint angry. “And if you think for one second that I believe that shit about you sleeping 5-6 hours a night I’m a monkey’s uncle – _laying_ in bed and _sleeping in bed_ are two different things, Barton.” He smiles ruefully. “And I doubt you even did that.”

Clint grins up at him. “You really did your homework, didn’t you sir? You’re a regular First Class scout.” 

“You know damn well I was an Eagle Scout, Barton.” 

“Sorry, sir.”

“It is nightmares? Problems falling asleep? Both?” 

“Falling asleep,” he answers, the skin under his eyes bruised and squinted. “I don’t know what’s wrong; even when I’m completely exhausted, I just lie in bed for hours tossing and turning. And when I do eventually pass out, it’s always right before I have to start duty somewhere.”

“Perhaps your objective…” Phil speculates, but Clint shakes his head.

“Like you said, it wasn’t a hard mission. There was nothing to be on edge about before or during. All he wanted to do was pig out on room service and swim laps in the pool. Yeah, real hard to guard. And he apparently has more money than Michael fucking Bloomberg so the hotel we stayed at was world class: gourmet meals, Egyptian cotton everything – they even had those pedicures with the fish that suck on your toes. Yes Coulson I tried it – I was desperate, alright? And, there were nine of us – Fury’s orders – so I had half the day to myself, 3 days a week.”

Phil adjusts the blanket over his legs. “How’s it been the last few days since you’ve been back?” he asks.

“Except, for the 12 hours I was knocked out in the Medlab, nothing’s changed. I took a two-hour nap in the vents earlier, but it wasn’t great.” 

Phil rolls his eyes. “Really now? I’m surprised sleeping in a 3 by 5 foot long air shaft wouldn’t be more comfortable.”

Clint rolls his eyes back. “Yeah, who knew?” Reaching a hand back, he tosses both pillows to the side until he can flop down onto his back. The hand he raises to massage his eyes is shaking, and when he next speaks it’s in a whisper. “I’m tired, Coulson.” A gentle hush descends the room.

For the first time that night, Phil has no idea of what to do. After Clint had made his office confession he’d wasted no time in ushering him out of SHIELD, into Lola and back to Stark Tower. The common room was dark and other than a quick hello to JARVIS they’d continued on their way in silence. Once in the elevator, he’d tried to stop on Clint’s floor, thinking he’d be more comfortable in his own bedroom or at least with his own change of clothes, but all he’d gotten was a glare for his efforts, and a stubborn refusal to get out once they’d reached. He’d sighed, but not without feeling more than a little pleased. Once in his quarters, Phil had wrapped Clint’s broken arm in plastic and escorted him into a steaming lavender-scented bath, washing his hair and back while keeping his hands strictly PG.   

Afterwards, he’d redressed his ribs and dried his hair, massaging Clint’s head minutes longer than he actually needed to. Clint’s head and neck are sensitive, and Phil’s man enough to admit he took perverse pleasure in seeing him shudder and shiver at every little brush across his nape and scalp. Clint had been nearly catatonic through most of it, his head pressed up against Phil’s stomach and his mouth dangerously close to his crotch, humming a soft note of pleasure at every swipe of Phil’s hands. Within moments of stopping, however, Clint had been awake again, yawning and staring up.

His remedy of warm milk and a night sleeping on his own E.F. Kluft had been DOA as well.

What’s he missing?

Knowing the answer will come to him eventually, he sits up and says, “Roll over.” Maybe some movement will clear his head.

Clint slides his arm a few inches up his face and squints at him long and hard before he obeys, rolling onto his stomach and laying his cheek on a reclaimed pillow. After rubbing a few dollops of scented oil between his hands, Phil sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through the back of his head. Clint shudders and his eyes drift close, and with that Phil gets to work.

It’s basically a continuation of the living room massage except now he’s added the top third of his back to his repertoire. He uses his knuckles to knead away the hard knots of tension and presses down hard with his palms when they’ve loosened. He spends a leisurely time giving his non-casted arm a long rubdown. He lifts and squeezes his way down biceps, triceps, elbow and forearm before finally reaching his hand. It feels strangely intimate to slip his fingers between someone else’s and when he uses his fingers to massage the joints and work his palm and wrist, Clint rocks his body up in surprise.

“Sorry,” Phil apologizes because of course that’s got to tickle. He continues for a few more minutes before laying the hand back on the bed again.

When he looks up, Clint’s somehow maneuvered the pillow to cover the top of his head. Phil huffs out a breath and asks, “Breathing ok in there?” Instead of answering, the other man just hums and squirms until he’s bared the back of his neck.

Phil rolls his eyes and gets to work. After a while he asks, “Any closer to falling asleep?" 

“N…not really.” Clint’s voice sounds strange, hoarse. He clears his throat. “That feels really good though. Thanks.”

Phil beams. “You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re just thinking too much. You probably just need to turn off your brain and relax.”

“Easier said than done.”

“What have you been thinking about anyway? You said your insomnia started a few days before you left for your mission. Can you think of anything that coincides with that timeline?”

“Nobody killed my dog, sir, if that’s what you’re asking. Nothing special’s happened. UAE was low-key and my mission before that barely warranted an S3 – I’ve had plenty of time to get some rest.”

Phil pauses. Tilting his head he asks, “Hadn’t Natasha and Steve been away on a mission a few days prior to your departure?”

“Yeah, so?”

“And it’s been six weeks since you’ve seen either Tony or Bruce; they were both asked to conduct biomedical research in Cambodia and have been in and out of the country since.”

Clint’s tone is impatient. “ _Yes_ , and Thor’s been in Asgard and you were with Hill in Kuwait,” he huffs. Rolling over, Clint finally pulls his head from beneath the pillow and sits up. “What’s your **point**?”

Silence.

“Don’t give me that look. Just spit it out, Coulson. I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”

Clint’s tone is incredulous. “You can’t possibly think that I have insomnia because I – I – I …”

Phil raises an eyebrow.

“I _miss_ everyone?!”

Phil smiles.

“How messed up do you think I am?!”

“Calm down, Clint. I don’t think there’s anything ‘messed up’ about it at all. Given the circumstances, it’s completely understandable.” Phil puts his hand up as Clint sputters for a response.

“You’re part of a team that spends nearly every waking moment with each other. You’ve missed them; there’s no shame in that. First of all, Natasha may as well be your twin, and you can’t tell me you haven’t missed Bruce’s cooking. You and Steve spar together on the weekends, and don’t think I don’t know about you sneaking into the vents above Tony’s workshop to watch him work – don’t worry, JARVIS and I are the only ones who know.”

Clint stares at him with his lip between his teeth then flops back onto his stomach to hide his face in his arms.  “This sucks,” he mumbles.

“It’s not the end of the world.”

“I know, I’m just…”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah.”

“So… _have_ you been lonely?”

A long moment of silence then, “Yeah.” 

“I’m sure they’ve missed you.”

Clint chuckles. “Yeah.”

“I missed you, too, Clint.”

Clint’s ears go red. He buries his head further in his arms and after a long while mutters, “…Yeah.”

“Everyone should be back in the next 2 to 3 days, so you just have to hold out until then. You’ve got to get some sleep though. No offense, but it looks like you’ve got two black eyes instead of just one. Since we know what’s wrong, you should be able to fall asleep easier this time. Now, let me massage you and please for the love of God go to sleep.”

“Wait, Coulson I-”

But, Phil has had enough of late-night conversations for one day. Firmly, and in his best handler’s voice, he says, “Lay down. _Now_.”

He pushes him back down on the bed with one hand and places a pillow on top of his head with the other. “Hide under here if you’re embarrassed. Now be quiet and Go. To. Sleep.” Yawning, he cracks his fingers and starts in on his third massage in as many hours. He does little more than slide his hands over his nape, scalp and back again, reaching beneath the pillow to reach the areas hidden from view. “It’s ridiculous for you to be up at this hour,” he says softly as he uses his thumbs to massage the area under his ears to the top of his shoulders. He loses himself so completely in the feel of Clint’s skin between his hands that he almost misses when he speaks.

“Coulson.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you to stop?”

“Ready to turn in? Ok, just another minute.”

Clint buries his head deeper beneath the pillow before he manages to stammer out, “N-no it’s…it’s not that. It’s just…your hands…on my neck – it’s making me-”

“Fall asleep? I know. A good massage always relaxes me too; my lower back does it for me every time. You’re a lot more sensitive than Natasha let on though.” He’s lightly sliding both hands up over his neck and through his hair, scratching lightly at the head underneath when Clint lets out a moan that fills the master bedroom and ricochets off the four walls. Phil has just enough time to think _Well **that** was interesting. Sexy as hell, but interesting. It almost sounds like he’s-_

“…hard. You touching my neck is making me hard." 

Phil jumps up like he’s been burned. Gaping, he watches as Clint rolls over to recline back against an elbow. His hard on, clearly visible even in the dim darkness, is tenting the front of the sheets to poke cartoon Steve in the back of the eye. He tears his eyes up to look at his sniper.   

Clint’s eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed, his cheeks filled with a deep flush. He bites his lip when he catches Phil staring and petulantly he says, “I told you to stop.”

Oh God, he has to apologize. Like now, right this minute because he hadn’t known. Hadn’t had a fucking clue that when Natasha had mentioned Clint liking massages and being sensitive she’d meant _sexually_ _fucking_ _aroused_. He stumbles over a litany of _I’m sorrys_ and _didn’t know_ s but it sounds disingenuous even to him. He keeps losing his train of thought. His bottom lip is bitten and red and just begging to be sucked, and the outline of his cock is still so prominent. Phil wonders how long it’ll take to go down. It’s distracting. 

Clint listens to his babbling for longer than is warranted before he growls and yanks him down on top of him. Clint grunts in pain when he lands, and worried he pushes up on his hands and asks if he’s alright…Or that’s what he would have asked, if Clint’s tongue hadn’t lodged itself in his mouth and down his throat. And just like that they’re kissing long and sweet and desperate. Clint’s vying for control, but gives it up to Phil soon enough. He cups his face and tilts his head back until Clint’s tongue is back in his own mouth along with Phil’s. After several minutes, they break apart with a wet smack and breathing hard Phil stares in wonder at the body below.  

Clint leans up for another kiss, a quick peck this time. “Shut up,” he says as he grounds his cock against the leg between his thighs. “And fuck me.” A longer kiss now. “Sir.”

Phil rips off the sheets and has a hand shoved down Clint’s pants so fast, he nearly jackknifes off the bed. Phil cocks his head to the side. “You sure do like to boss people around, don’t you?” he says. Inside, Clint is all heated slick, his precum flowing quickly to coat his hand and wrist. He holds his cock in hand for a minute, then strokes down reaching back behind his balls and past his perineum to probe his twitching hole. Clint is just as wet down here and when his fingers make contact, the muscles of his anus contract, his asscheeks squeezing around his hand trying to pull him in deeper. He spends a few seconds circling the opening, spreading the moisture around, taking pleasure in the little hitches Clint makes whenever it seems like a finger will slip in. On one such occurrence, he shoves in, his middle and index fingers pressed together as he works his way down until his fingers are fully encased.   

He holds still as Clint pulls on his shirt and moans, his legs spread wide as he tries to get Phil to move his fingers, add another, go in deeper, _anything_. He’s tempted, oh God is he tempted, but resists instead taking satisfaction at Clint’s guttural cry when he pulls them out completely. He has a lesson to teach.

He settles his hand back at the base of his cock and slides up, slow and tight. He keeps stroking as he says, “For some reason you seem to think it’s either your way or the highway, but, it’s about time you realized that I call the shots.” When Clint arches into his grip, he lets go. “No!” Clint shouts. “And I run the show.” He keeps his hand shoved down Clint’s boxers right next to his leaking dick, unmoving watching in amusement as Clint jerks his hips from side to side looking for some friction. Clint’s hand twitches briefly in contemplation, but Phil grabs before it can move so it’s both down and away. “You’ll listen to me.”

Clint whimpers. “Coulson, _please_.”

“I’m the boss, Barton and the world does not revolve around you. Understand?” Phil looks into his eyes. Clint’s pupils are blown, absolutely gone. He’s panting and sweating and not all there, but when notices Phil’s stare, he nods vigorously and stills his hips while squeezing his eyes shut. Phil lets go of his captured hand and hums in pleasure when he sees Clint doesn’t bother to move it.

“Good.”

He reaches up and pulls down his sweats to expose his erection, fisting himself languidly as he groans in relief. With his other hand, he pulls down Clint’s sweats just enough to fully expose his boxers to the air. He scooches down and nosing his nose and mouth through one of the openings, proceeds to suck a hickey into the crease between his thigh and groin. He buries his face in the opening as he licks, sucks and nibbles the skin red. He can’t see the color in the near darkness, but he does it long enough until he’s sure. “You’re alright,” he says because Clint sounds like he’s close to hyperventilating. “Relax.” He alternatives sides, first left then the right, and the third time Clint begs to come he says, “No.” After the fifth time, he reaches a hand up to wipe away Clint’s tears. “You’re been very good so far. I’m impressed. Just a little longer.”

Eventually, he wipes his mouth and pulls down his shorts so his cock springs free. “That’s better,” he says as he wraps his hand back around it. He picks up the stroke again, faster and harder than before, and Clint’s sobs turn grateful. He doesn’t know what Clint likes so he tries a few moves. He watches Clint’s face carefully and makes a few mental notes for the future. _Head is sensitive_.

A few dozen strokes in Clint’s frantic and twisting in his grip. He’s moaning and panting, “ _Fuuuck_ , oh God, oh God, Phil, _yeees_ –” when Phil leans in and kisses him just to shut him up.

“Clint,” he says, licking into his mouth.

Silence.

He pinches a nipple.

“Yes!”

“I love you.”

Clint sobs.

“I’m in love with you.”

“Please, please, please, please, ple-”

“And I’m not letting you go. Ever. Alright?”

“Yes Phil, yes. I love you, I love you _, Iloveyou_ , just _plea_ se -”

Phil cups the back of his neck and jerks him up to smash their mouths together, grinding his hips down hard between his thighs, merciless. He ruts once, twice, then uses his thumb and index finger to squeeze the head of his cock. Hard. Harder than Phil thinks can possibly feel good. But, for Clint it’s enough. Too much, in facet. He shakes and groans and tosses his head back and comes all over the both of them. It sprays to coat his belly and chest, some even managing to land on the bedspread. He’s still twitching when Phil wraps a rough hand back around himself, quickly jerking himself to completion moaning Clint’s name until he’s done. As his heart rate slowly returns to normal, he has one thought as he sits astride Clint’s hips:

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuuuuck_.

He takes stock of the situation.

Dicks out – check

Cum everywhere – double check

Insomniac agent successfully passed out – check, check, and check

Well, at least one thing had gone according to plan.

Being careful not to wake the other man, he gets off the bed and goes in straight to the bathroom. He’s changed their clothes and just finished wiping them down when Clint stirs. The other man’s stares at him for what feels like forever before Phil finally has the courage to look into the half-lidded gaze.

“Barton, I mean Clint. I can explain. I –”

“Coulson.” Clint’s voice is sleepy, his words soft and slurred.  “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Phil blushes. “I’m sorry, Clint. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He adds hastily, “I should’ve waited until you were feeling better before I jumped you. I meant what I said before though.” He strokes a hand through Clint’s hair. “I love you.”

Clint smiles at him for such a long time Phil has no choice but to smile back. Then Clint yawns and his eyes close a fraction more. He reaches a hand out and weakly tries to pull him in. “Sleep with me?”

He doesn’t even have to ask.

He maneuvers the two of them until they’re curled together, Clint nestled in his arms, his head buried underneath his chin.

Clint has time for one last sleepy confession of “Love you” then he’s gone, snoring softly into the hollow of his throat.

Phil smiles in the darkness and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took me so long to update. I had the majority of it written weeks ago, but I spent a long time editing. Any available betas out there? I'm thinking about making this into a series, but I'm not totally sure yet. 
> 
> As always, please write a review to let me know what you think of the sex scene, grammar, story line, whatever. 
> 
> Thanks :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first RP fanfic so please give me your honest feedback! Next chapter will be Phil's POV.


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